A lot of my colleagues love the fact that travel is part of academic life. Isn’t it splendid that visiting exotic locales like, uh, Frankfurt am Oder! (note: that’s not the exciting Frankfurt, and, no offense to Frankfurters, but the exciting one’s not that exciting either) and…Edmonton! is a required part of our job. (Because, in case you aren’t hip to the ways of the academic, we have to disseminate our brilliant research, which we do at conferences or academic meetings.) Me? I hate travel. I’m grateful my job makes me do it, because otherwise I’d never leave my house. I don’t like Foreign Places, because I always feel so shitty about my rudimentary or nonexistent language skills, and everyone hates Americans, and I get so intensely self-conscious about making an ass of myself ordering coffee, and there are some places where being vegetarian is problematic (Confidential to Spain: Ham is not a vegetable.) and in short it’s STRESSFUL for a delicate flower like me.
And now I have to leave my child.
On Thursday I’m off to Vancouver, returning Monday.
I hear it’s lovely. I will not be appreciating its loveliness.
Several people have told me that I will enjoy the freedom. I will not enjoy the freedom. I will be listening (or “listening”, anyway) to tedious-ass talks and missing my child. And going to bed early because I’m ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD AND OLD AND FEEBLE and missing my child. And not being able to go out drinking with my buddies and missing my child.
On the side of good, I get to take my fetus. I’m very glad about that.